


Months

by olippe



Series: Time [3]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Awkward Romance, Best Friends, Childhood Friends, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Teen Romance, Teenagers, artie is low-key smooth, but aren't they cute, i'm sorry i don't have brain, paul is oblivious, say they're cute or we're done, so your usual deal, they are cute, this is so random
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Things transpired once a month.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: Time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734310
Comments: 31
Kudos: 19





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to make a one-off for Halloween, but thought eh let's just do one every month.  
> PROMPTS ARE APPRECIATED BECAUSE I CELEBRATE NOTHING. BUT PLEASE FORGIVE ME IF THEY'RE WEIRD, I'M NOT GOOD WITH PROMPTS.
> 
> Chapters would be stand-alone because I don't have enough brain to make another continuous story hahahhahahahahahahhahahahahahah I have to work.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween. Artie the Witch came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing but enjoy...? If you can??????  
> I'm dead. My brain is dead. I'm sorry.

“This year officially sucks.”

“Oh, it’s that time of year, eh? Paul Simon annual shitty year recap.” Art laughed. “Alright, lay it on me.”

Art laughed with his whole face. That’s what Paul would sometimes think whenever he saw Art laughing and he had nothing better to do than to stare. There’s something quite pleasing about the way his face looked when he laughed.

Paul took a deep drag off their shared cigarette and blew the smoke out of the window of Art’s bedroom. Art had let Paul smoke in the room, but he warned about what sort of high-pitched screaming they’re gonna get rained with had his mother found out. Paul wasn’t gonna deliberately get them in trouble. Not when the fun’s much less than the grief.

“I broke up,” he said. Art took the cigarette and lifted his eyebrows into a silent ‘oh?’, then Paul dropped his head and laughed. “That’s a lie. I got dumped.”

Art waved the cigarette at Paul. “Hey, stick with the first narrative. That sounds better.”

“I know,” Paul agreed. He swatted the smoke that drifted away from the tip of the cigarette and directed it towards the outside. “That’s why I practised it with you, for future performances. But that last part, I have to tell you that for the sake of reference, now that we’re talking about it.”

“Oh, are we talking about it?” Art grinned because Paul never really talked about it, in the end. Paul playfully smacked him in the head and Art laughed. Paul’s limbs moved faster than his brain, and he had tendency to speak with touch before he did with words. Loosely translated, a smack meant he’s feeling much better already.

Paul dropped his butt to take a seat next to Art on the floor, under the window pane. He sighed heavily and stole the cigarette from Art again. “It’s just such a bad timing, you know? It’s Halloween! We’re supposed to have someone on Halloween.”

Art frowned. “Are you sure you’re not mixing it up with New Year? Or Valentine’s Day?” That’s just very Paul to get dates and celebrations mixed up.

“No,” Paul pushed his chest out of the window and blew the smoke away. He scowled at the fading greyness, then returned to Art, handing him the rest of the cigarette. Art reclaimed it with pleasure. “No! Artie, Halloween is _the_ day. When else can you wear matching costumes? And hold hands while going from house to house, then get sugar high together on a sack of sweets? That, my funny-looking friend, is the height of romance.”

“First of all, you’re _way_ too old for trick-or-treating.” Paul interrupted with a defiant ‘you’re _never_ too old for free food’. Art took his time with the second part. He let out a puff of smoke and said, “And second of all, we do all of that, _all_ _the time_. Nothing romantic about that.”

“Yeah, smartass, _those_ are not costume. Those are work attire _._ What? Our matching suits _are_ for work! Performance art is a legitimate work!”

Art grinned. “I’m not your father, Paul. You don’t have to defend your little hobby with me.”

“ _Little_ hobby. God, you _sound_ like my Dad. Go on, then. Tell me to be a teacher. I _dare_ you.” Art laughed, and Paul laughed with him. It’s just so easy with Art. Sure, there were days when Paul would give his leg to shave all of Art’s hair, but that’s true for all friendship. He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the wall. “Oh, Artie. If only you were a girl.”

Art frowned. He quickly finished the cigarette and killed it on his window pane. “What, you mean, you’re gonna date me if I were a girl? You think of me being a girl?”

“No, but that would totally work. And if you _were_ a girl, that would be perfect. I like hanging out with you, you have _great_ voice and we listen to the same sort of music… I mean, I do lean more towards brunettes, but for you, I’d go blonde.” Paul patted—slapped—Art’s back proudly, as if he just said something incredibly admirable. “I mean, wouldn’t you? If I were a girl?”

“I have honestly never thought of you being a girl at all. Ever.”

Paul giggled and punched Art’s shoulder. “Shut up. I’d be a total cutie.”

“I’m not gonna comment on what you’re gonna look like,” Art laughed lightly, pushing Paul’s fist away from him, “but, I’m not all that excited with the thought of co-existing with, much less dating, a girl who punches me for fun and sport.”

“Marcy Zimmermann.”

“And that was obviously a mistake!”

Paul crawled away from their spot under the window pane to fetch his jacket that was on the floor. He rummaged the pockets, looking for one more cigarette that he’s sure to be there somewhere. When he couldn’t find any, he gave up and returned to his seat. “Anyway,” he said, “if you think about it, we’re not all that far from dating, really. See, think of things you do when you’re dating a girl. I’ll start. We spend time together.”

“True,” Art agreed. “But with dating, I don’t commonly spend this _much_ time together.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I’m your superior dating material. We actually _like_ hanging out together. Not like I don’t like hanging out with… Anyway, not important. Okay, next. We hold hands.”

Art sighed. Art thought, had it been initiated by him, this whole conversation would’ve been dropped the moment it was brought up. “That’s all you. You and your weird touching people all the time thing.”

“Not my fault you always look like you’re gonna get lost or get trampled or stumble on your own feet, you queasy giraffe.” Art tried to kick Paul, but the latter evaded swiftly and laughed. Then Paul cleared his throat and decided to go on with the list, “We, uh, hug.”

Art nodded. “Yeah, I give you that. We both do that.”

“And there’s that thing where people rest their head on the other’s shoulder.”

“That’s just you.”

“Only because you look like a fucking ostrich.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

Paul grinned. “I know. I just wanna say something to argue with you. Anyway, my point is, we do all that stuff, _and_ it’s always relatively more fun. Of course, we’re short the nervousness and romance, but it’s all there, eh? The only thing we _never_ do is the kissy part of it all.”

Art shook his head in disbelief and chuckled. “Okay, Paul? We’re _way_ too deep into weird territory now and I’d like to know why you’re doing this. _And,_ if you recall correctly, you _have_ kissed me.” Paul’s eyes widened in surprise and he withdrew from Art. Art nodded. “Yeah, on the cheek. Forgot what that’s about, but you said, ‘God, Artie, I could just kiss you!’, and then you did. So, congratulations, you’re dating me.”

Paul frowned and tried to recall the event, but couldn’t. Eventually, he just sighed and shrugged. “Yeah, sorry, I’m just bummed. I guess this is my way of saying, ‘I don’t need girls, I have Artie!’, and me trying to convince myself that it’s better.” He pouted. “It’s not better.”

“How dare you. I’m a hot commodity.”

Both of them laughed again, then Paul sprang up to his feet, so suddenly that Art got a little startled. “Okay, so, I’m gonna go home and get ready for tonight. You’re coming too, right? Not trick-or-treating, I mean. I heard a bunch of people are gonna get together in the park? They’re gonna play some scary movies on a big screen, or whatever? They give away free candies if we wear costumes.” Paul paused for a bit, then grinned. “Right, I meant to go there with my girlfriend, that’s why I didn’t tell you until just now. See? It’s a brilliant date activity. But screw her, she dumped me. What do you say?”

Art smirked. “Okay, I see where you’re going. Sure, I’ll go. Meet you in an hour?”

“It’s a date,” Paul laughed.

“What are you wearing?” Paul narrowed his eyes at Art, so Art scoffed and quickly shook his head. “No, no. Not ‘what are you wearing for the date’, stupid. The costume. I was trying to ask what costume you’re gonna wear. Shut up and stop trying to be my girlfriend.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “Whatever. We would’ve been so happy together.”

Art looked at Paul, and Paul thought it’s a bit of an odd look that he just shot. Slowly, Art moved to stand up, and he wiped his palms—sweaty, which was very Artie, in Paul’s opinion—on his trousers.

The next several seconds proved that there’s a reason why Art wiped his palms earlier. It would’ve been a bit more gross than it needed be if Art’s palms, when they cupped Paul’s face, were sweaty. But they weren’t. So when Art reached out to draw Paul, Paul didn’t retreat in disgust. No, Paul was still. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his hands were balled up in fists on the sides of his body, and his mouth made a little protesting whimper.

That was the last thing Art saw before Paul’s face disappeared from his sight as he closed his eyes, and closed the distance between their mouths. Art focused all of his focus on other senses. He tasted the slight bitterness of residual tobacco on Paul’s lower lip, and smelled the pungent odour of smoke, saltiness of sweat, and faint sweet scent of what’s left of Paul’s cologne, or whatever he’s wearing that got him to smell so intoxicating. The tips of his fingers noticed every bump on the skin of Paul’s face. He could still hear Paul’s weak attempt to protest this whole proceeding.

But Art wasn’t letting go. His hands slipped away from Paul’s face and drifted to wrap Paul’s body entirely, drawing him closer. Paul made another whimpering noise, but right then, somehow, Art noticed how small Paul felt in his arms, and he could’ve tucked Paul in there forever. Paul was much stronger than Art, that’s established. But as this whole thing unfolded, Paul’s stature seemed to define the level of control more than anything. Art felt big. He felt so big that he could easily take over the world.

Eventually, Paul regained some of his conscious and pushed Art’s chest a little. Art, bitterly, agreed to the cue. The moment his lips left Paul’s, he heard a little giggling, and Paul saying, “Gross.”

Art opened his eyes and grinned back at the giggling Paul. “I’m not the one who kept on selling how perfect it’d be if we’re dating.”

“Hey, I wasn’t selling anything. That was pure observation, and admittedly a pretty desperate attempt to cheer myself up.” Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, frowning a little and giggling nervously. “Yeah, that’s just so you to take jokes way too far.”

Art cleared his throat and looked down to his feet. “Yeah, Paul? That wasn’t a joke.”

“No kidding. You actually kissed me, dude. That was so fucking weird.”

“No, Paul.” Art lifted his face now, shooting that glance—that odd glance—at Paul so he knew Art was being serious. Art shook his head weakly. “It’s not me responding to your stupid dating jokes. It’s not me extending the jokes. It’s not a joke.”

Paul tilted his head. “I’m lost.”

This time, it’s Art who let out a nervous giggle. “You’re so oblivious. Listen, I _just_ kissed you. Can you not draw your own conclusion from that?”

“You haven’t had a girlfriend in a very long time that you forgot how to kiss and are now looking for a sparring partner?”

“I hate you.”

Paul stared at him. Art just raised his eyebrows, which they both knew had meanings but neither said a word. There wasn’t much left to say, anyway. So what’s there to do was to let Paul process the whole thing, and for Art to wait for his sentence. Art was in no rush. He let Paul take half a step back, look down and grasp for words, and he let Paul hold on to his hands when he’s too shocked to stand up straight.

Eventually, Paul cleared his throat. “That’s scary.”

Art shrugged. “It’s Halloween. It’s a good day for witches to come out.”

“So you’re a witch?” Art shrugged again, this time smiling. Paul narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Can boys be witches?”

“The term’s not exclusive to women, from what I know.” Art noticed that his hands were holding Paul’s around the wrists. He tightened the grip a little. “ _You_ told me. Last Halloween. _You_ wanted to be a witch. I said…”

“Gross.” Paul grinned and nodded. “I remember. We really need to expand our vocabulary, don’t you think?” He was staring at their joined hands, Art thought. He didn’t say that out loud.

Paul moved in and pulled Art into a hug. _It’s something that people who are dating do_ , Art thought. He noticed how fast his heart was racing, but it’s strange how he felt no fear. He should’ve. He should’ve been scared that Paul would push him out of the window, then jump out to stomp on his head. Had it been another day, Art would’ve been scared. But this was the day for people to look at fear on the eyes and mock them. This was Halloween.

“I have to think about it,” he heard Paul said.

Art smiled. “That’s not a no.”

“And not an ‘I’ll kill you,’ so I’ll say it’s a pretty good response,” Paul laughed weakly. From the way his fingers curled and pulled at Art’s shirt, it seemed that Paul was on the verge of breaking the hug—but the way his palms flattened and his shoulders relaxed, it signified that he’d changed his mind. “What’s gonna happen after this?”

Art shrugged. “Witches are still witches, even when it’s not Halloween. They just put down the broomsticks and wear normal clothes, that’s all.”

“Fancy answer.” Paul let go. Art gave him a faint smile to mask his disappointment, but still he patted Paul lightly. “Listen, for what it’s worth, we _are_ gonna be happy together, aren’t we? And we _are_ happy right now, right? So don’t get all murky, Artie the Hairy.”

“Artie the Hairy,” Art repeated dubiously.

“Your witch name.”

“If you’re gonna give me a witch name, can you use just the smallest fraction of your functional brain to come up with something better?” Art smiled when Paul laughed loudly and shook his head in his usual defiance. He pushed Paul gently. “Go home. Go. Go get your costume. You deserve your free lollipops.” He paused, hesitating. “You _still_ want to go, right? I mean, if you don’t want to anymore…”

“No, I want to. Artie,” Paul shook his head. “Artie, I’m not mad. Or whatever people are supposed to feel when that happens to them, I’m not sure. If I _were_ mad, you’d be dead by now, you know that, right?”

Art nodded. “I know.” He cleared his throat again. “But you’re not… disgusted, or anything? I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s what most people would… you know, feel.”

Paul frowned, tilting his head. “Um, no,” he answered, hesitantly. “Not… I don’t know. I just thought it’s… I don’t know, Artie. Most of all, I’m just really surprised.”

“Okay, I get it.” Art nodded again, then added, shyly, “Thank you. For not killing me.”

Paul grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Paul gave Artie a comforting squeeze, which he knew always worked well for Art. After they shared a brief glance, Paul took a few long strides towards the bedroom door with a light wave for Art. And for a few seconds, Art watched his movements as if in slow motion, and he noticed how much he wanted to preserve the moment so much. When Paul detached himself from Art, and the heat and pressure of his palm were still fresh on Art’s right arm. The way his face was sculpted into a half-smile, the easy sway of his body as he turned away. Art had seen Paul moving away from him a countless time now, but never had he ever felt so heavy to let the door swing open and take Paul away from him.

“Or if you’re not in the mood for scary movies or big crowds, we can just stay here.”

Paul paused at the threshold, lifting an eyebrow at Art, who’s looking down and clearing his throat repeatedly. He shrugged, and added softly. “We can both stay here. I can think of something else you can suck.” Then, he began to grin. “Or I can.”

“Whoa.” Paul blinked. He leaned against the door, folding his arms in front of his chest. Paul frowned until Art felt he’s robbed off all air in his lungs. Paul said, like an accusation, “Witch Artie is overwhelming.”

The time moved way too slow when something stupidly brave was spoken and a corresponding answer was expected. Art couldn’t bring himself to look at Paul now, no matter how much he convinced himself that at least Paul still seemed to find this exchange amusing. How _could_ Paul think this was amusing? If it were _Paul_ who told him all this, and he didn’t think of Paul that way, he would at least ask Paul to leave so he could cry under the blanket. Paul’s _too_ tolerating. That’s his one good thing.

“I can’t,” Paul said. Art wished he were a pumpkin. Maybe after midnight, he’d turn into pumpkin. Life seemed to be easier if he were a pumpkin. “But after we’re done with the scary movies, you’re welcomed to try.”

Art kept his eyes trained to his feet, his grin got a little wider. He heard Paul’s light giggling and the door swinging open and slamming shut, and still his eyes were on the floor. In just a couple of hours, things would change. Hadn’t it changed already?

Suddenly, the door swung open and Paul dashed back in, pulled Art by the arm and kissed him lightly on the lips. It felt like a slap and, like all slaps that Paul had given Art throughout the years, it’s followed by a cheerful laughter. “Not even a kiss goodbye. Some boyfriend you are,” he said, before retaking his leave.

Art looked ahead with a stupid smile now. The door to his bedroom was wide open because Paul didn’t bother to close it. The sound of Paul’s stomping down the stairs echoed in his ears, and the view of Paul’s disappearing head lingered. The day began to flash back, from the beginning until the last four words Paul just whispered in front of his face. It’s repeating in his head like a spell, or a chant.

It really was the season of the witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE NEVER BEEN TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY SO IDK? I JUST WATCH SCARY MOVIES? WHAT DO PEOPLE DO?  
> I'D ONLY EVER BEEN TO TEA PARTY AND CHICKEN-TELLY-CAKE PARTY SO? WHAT DO PEOPLE DO?


	2. November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Artie's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK I'm not really sure what I'm doing here, but I kinda wanna publish this story anyway hshfskkdsfkjdkfjskfjks it's a busy period, guys.
> 
> \+ November is a good month.

On a pleasant rainy November day, Mrs. Garfunkel opened the door to find a wet Paul Simon on the porch. She stopped him on the first step inside the house, instructed him to take off everything he could take off, and told him to wait until she returned with a towel. Paul did everything as requested, and said, “It’s not my fault. I was just walking, then it started to rain.”

“You could’ve just gone home,” she retorted. She bent over to find a towel from a cabinet, then handed it to Paul while frowning. “Your house is _right there._ If I walk out to my gate, I can _see_ your house. Just a few steps away, Paul, and you would’ve wet your house instead of mine, as it should’ve been.”

“I wanna see Artie,” he said. Paul took the towel and put it over his head, drying his hair. He handed a small pile of his wet clothes to Mrs. Garfunkel and mumbled an insincere apology. The woman simply shook her head and walked in to drop the clothes into the laundry basket. She said, before leaving, “I bet Artie has something you can wear,” to which Paul grinned. “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m here.”

She laughed as she made her way to the laundry room, and Paul smiled at the remnant of her shadow. He quickly dried his feet and trotted to the bedroom at the end of the house. Art was already sitting when Paul walked in, alert like a puppy. “Thought I heard you,” he said, then frowning at the state of undress Paul was in. “What the hell happened to all of your clothes?”

“Your Mum took it,” he said, closing the door with a gentle kick, then casually walked off to rummage Art’s closet. Art eyed his movements but wasn’t all that impressed by this event. It wasn’t the first time that Paul wound up needing a change of clothes while in his house. He returned to his homework after he saw Paul drawing his snug old jumper, then lifted his eyes again when Paul asked, “Do I have some change underwear stashed around here somewhere?”

Art sighed and waved his pencil. “Bottom drawer, I guess. Just keep digging.”

“Now, this is turning into an exciting afternoon. Scavenger hunt.” Paul returned to the closet. Art could hear some dragging and knocking about, and after a while, Paul’s voice, again: “Can I borrow something from you? You can say no.”

“If it’s _my_ underwear, the answer is no.”

“Please? No one will know.” Paul laughed. He pulled his head out of the closet and grinned, raising a crumpled fabric briefly to show that he’s found what he’s looking for. “Not that. I want to borrow your wire recorder. Just for a day. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

“My wire recorder?” Art repeated. He watched as Paul shot up to change out of his wet briefs. Paul kicked around and jumped on one foot. He’s a lot like a monkey. “Sure, you can borrow it. What are you gonna do with it?”

Paul smiled and sat on Art’s bed, clasping his hands. “It’s a secret,” he said, and his voice was uncharacteristically soft that it startled Art a little. “But it’s nothing horrible, I swear.” He paused, then grimaced. “Or, I guess.”

“Okay,” Art replied, nonchalantly. It wouldn’t be Paul’s first time being horrible, so Art wasn’t too concerned about it. Art closed his book and stood up, leaving Paul to get the wire recorder for him. “Just make sure you don’t damage it or anything,” Art warned, and Paul quickly nodded.

Paul thanked Art when he returned, all set with the recorder and everything. Then, he said, “I have bad news,” with a very, very serious face. Art waited, but Paul didn't immediately deliver the said bad news. Instead, he patted the bed to hint for Art to sit down with him. Art obliged. Paul nodded at him gravely. “I’m not gonna be here this weekend.”

Art sighed in relief. “Okay, why is that bad news? Are you going to go to a horrible aunt’s house or something?”

“It’s an out-of-town wedding that I thought I could get out from but apparently not, _and,_ ” Paul shoved Art’s shoulder, glowering, “it’s your birthday on Saturday. We’ll be leaving in the morning, so I wouldn’t be able to… you know.”

“Oh.” Art’s eyebrows twitched a little as he tried not to frown and burst into giggles. He pressed his lips together and cleared his throat to prevent any of that from happening, but still he grinned. “I don’t know why you’re going all serious about this. You know it’s not that big a deal. It’s _just_ a birthday.”

“Yeah, but it’s _your_ birthday!” Paul had started to flail his arms around, which meant he’s getting upset because he thought Art wasn’t taking him seriously. That’s true. “If _you_ do that on _my_ birthday, I would be upset.”

“You _don’t_ celebrate your birthday.”

“I did! _We_ did! We went to get apple pies and eat them in the park, remember?”

“ _That_ was a birthday celebration?”

Before Paul managed to get another word out of his mouth, Art held up both his hands and laughed. “Okay, Paul? Even if you’re here, I wouldn’t be doing anything. I’m really _not_ going to. If I have anything planned, or if my Mum has anything planned, you’d be the first to know, you know that, right? So, go. Go and get Eddie in trouble.”

Paul nodded weakly and mumbled a lot of soft, “Yeah…”

The two of them chatted lazily on the bed while waiting for the rain to stop. Neither of them knew which one dozed off first, but it’s already dinner time when Paul’s mother sent Eddie to pick him up.

They bade each other farewell.

***

Paul returned the wire recorder on Friday, and they used the last of Art’s spool to record their singing together. It’s Art’s day, so he got to choose which one to record. Before Paul went home, he asked what he did with the recorder, but Paul simply smiled. Which was weird.

On Saturday, quite early in the morning, someone knocked on Art’s bedroom window. Art, barely awake, dragged himself towards the draped windows to find Paul waving behind it, grinning under an umbrella. It’s lightly drizzling out there.

“What do you want?” Art grumbled, not so very amused to be disturbed in the morning of a weekend. He didn’t even notice Paul’s very formal clothes and his very nervous face.

“I’m gonna leave in, like, fifteen minutes. I just wanna give you this.” Paul placed a tin can on Art’s window sill. He smiled sheepishly. “Happy birthday.”

Art frowned. “Thanks.” He took the tin into his hand. “And, have fun at the wedding.”

“You too!” Paul coughed. “I mean, thanks. You have fun today, too.”

“See you tomorrow?”

“I, uh, yeah. See you tomorrow. I guess.”

Paul waved and quickly dashed off the Garfunkel garden, more like running away from Art than running towards his family. Art stood in stunned silence for several seconds, before turning his attention to the tin can that Paul just gave him. It’s a wire spool.

Art took his time with his day. He went to get himself some breakfast, then brushed his teeth and took a shower. His mother and father congratulated him for his birthday, and soon his younger brother joined the silly festivity. After a long morning in synagogue, they returned home and Art was showered with little gifts. He found a wrapped collection of newest vinyl releases, a humble box of snacks from Jerry, and some money ‘to buy whatever’ from Jules, who just recently moved away for university and had sent it sometimes ago for his mother to give him on his birthday. Jules rang a bit later after lunch, and Art received it to say his thanks before Jules asked him to fetch their mother. He made a long ‘err’ noise that signified that he’s probably in trouble, so Art removed himself from the scene.

Jerry went to see his friends on their joint bicycle, so Art was left alone. It’s around this time that he remembered that Paul had given him something earlier that day, and he hadn’t touched it since he received it. So Art took out his wire recorder and placed Paul’s little gift in there. He waited until the sound began while he watched the record head bobbed up and down, maintaining the evenness of the spool. If Paul’s recording didn’t start any time soon, Art would probably be hypnotised in a matter of minutes.

Paul’s voice began to ring. He played a few familiar songs that they’d been listening to on repeat the past few months—The Platters, Chuck Berry, Little Richards—and, of course, the first song they wrote together. Art smiled as he listened to the songs rolling out of the recorder. Paul definitely had handpicked the songs, because Art loved every single one of them. That’s pretty thoughtful.

“Hey, Artie.”

Art jumped in his seat. Then, he began to laugh, because the greeting came from the recording. He should’ve known Paul would do something like this. Art came closer to the recording, although he knew fully that it wouldn’t change anything. He knew it wasn’t Paul who’s sitting in front of him. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he said. Art laughed and replied, to the little box, “You don’t _have_ to be here, stupid.”

Paul in the wire wasn’t concerned with Art’s comeback. “This is all I’m giving you because I blew all my money on what my Mum called ‘unnecessary things’, but you know all that,” he said, and Art laughed again. He touched the edge of his recorder with his fingers, gently rubbing it, as if, for some reason, it’s actually Paul, sitting with him, making him laugh. In an odd moment of realisation, Art noticed that he missed Paul.

“So, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say,” he said, and from the tiny thudding sound, Art figured that he was putting down his guitar. Paul paused for several seconds. “I’m scared to tell you, though. But I really want you to know. I hope you’re not gonna, hmm, kill me, or anything, after this, and I hope we can still be friends, somehow… I hope we can…” Art frowned at the recorder. He sat up straighter.

“Artie, I love you.”

Art sat up even straighter.

“I mean, I think… I think that. I mean…” Paul cleared his throat. Art shot up to his feet and quickly locked the door. He stared at the whirring recorder in horror. Paul was still talking. “I know it’s pretty freaky… and I know you’re gonna freak out, but…” Art was freaking out. Paul _knew_ that Art was gonna freak out. It’s just very Paul to keep on pushing through anyway. “I think I should tell you anyway,” he said. “I guess… more for my sake than yours. It’s been driving me crazy. I’m sorry.

“So, I think you’re gonna need some time to think this over, I think… So, it’s probably a good idea not to tell you in person… So, well, this is what I’m doing. Yeah. So… Anyway, if you think you’re gonna be, uh, okay with this, or, um, you wanna talk about it or… I don’t know. On the off-chance that you’re not, uh, so very disturbed by this, I, uh,” Paul drew a deep breath and let it out in a whistling exhale—Art noticed that it’s quivering, a little, “I’ll be waiting.”

Art sat down and hugged his knees on the floor. The sound of the recording coming to a stop came after what Art was sure to be Paul uttering a certain rendezvous location that he couldn’t register. Art pressed his palms on either side of his head. He tried to bury himself in the ball he created with his body.

Paul loved him. That’s not the first time Paul said ‘I love you’ to Art, but he’d never followed the statement with any form of seriousness or nervousness. There’s no doubt in Art’s mind that Paul really _did_ love him. But probably not like that. He’d never thought that the love Paul had been announcing was a different kind of love.

And Art loved Paul. Only, not that way.

Art slowly crawled back towards his wire recorder and rewound the message.

***

There’s an eerie deserted house at the end of the lane. The door was sealed shut, and so were the windows, but Paul managed to find a little door to the cellar, heavily damaged and hidden by dense thickets. He’d invited Art there once, and no one apparently realised that such room, such door, existed. They spent one summer night there, captured fireflies from the garden and released the insects in the rotting cellar. They bobbed up and down and luminesced the dark room like earthly stars, making their own constellations under the collapsing sky. Art fell into a dream of conquering the heavens, and Paul was there by his side.

Artie took his time to think, that weekend. He tried to move as normally as he could, and he announced to the whole world that he’s going to spend a lot of time studying in his room and no one’s allowed to disturb him and his well-loved maths. No one took notice, because Art was always in his room with his well-loved maths.

He came out to eat his dinner, his breakfast, his lunch. He ate spoon after spoon slowly, thinking carefully although he wasn’t very sure that he’d really ever come up with an actual tangible thought throughout this period. Art moved like he’s supposed to move. But when he tried to think, instead of words, it’s simply filled with images of Paul.

Art looked out the window and it was raining, and he’s thinking of Paul and the last time Paul showed up there, with a spool of wire in a little glistening silver tin. It was early in the morning and the sky was barely awake.

This was when Art realised that the sky was already dark. He quickly stood up and checked the time—it’s barely past 4 in the afternoon, but he completely forgot that it’s November, a time of year where afternoon did not exist and lunch was pursued solely by an evening. The temperature would collapse soon, like the light. And if Paul was there, waiting for him, until God knows how long…

“Mum, I’m going,” he announced, already in his jacket.

“Where are you going?” His mother called. “It’s raining.”

“To Paul,” he answered, and he tied his shoes before sprinting towards the outside. Art grabbed an umbrella and waved it to his mother, as both a farewell and a request to borrow the item.

So Art ran. Art ran as fast as his slipping-prone feet can take him. The end of the lane felt far, unlike how it was when he’s not running on his own. And as he was running, he realised that he wasn’t sure what he’s gonna say to Paul. He just knew that he’s not gonna let Paul wait for him there, in the dark, in the cold, alone, in fear. He should at least tell Paul that he loved Paul. Paul should know that.

And when he fell down the steps towards the cellar and landed on his bottom, Art processed what he’d been thinking. The fall was a little harder than he expected, or perhaps the realisation hit him way too cruelly that he couldn’t immediately stand up and walk away from the wet ground. It wasn’t until he heard a small voice calling his name, that he began to scramble to his feet again.

“Paul?” he called.

Then, a tiny glint of orange light, and behind it, a shadow of a familiar face emerged. “Artie?” the face said. Then Art stood up, and the face sighed, then smiled. “I wasn’t sure you’re gonna come.”

“I was always gonna come,” Art replied, patting his sore butt. “Whatever I was thinking about saying, I was always gonna come. If I didn’t, you’d wait the whole night here and die.”

“ _Not_ the whole night,” he snorted, even though he knew he would. “Probably one or two more hours.”

“Liar,” Art said, grinning. He tested the slippery ground, and decided that it’s rather safe to walk. He took a few steps towards his friend.

In the darkened room, every sound was amplified and Art could hear that Paul was gulping, and the soles of his shoes were grinding nervously against the cracked floor, almost ready to run. Still, Paul was brave. Paul was always very brave. He asked, “So, are you going to say anything? About what I said?”

“No,” Art said. More steps were taken. By now, he’s already within an arm-length from Paul, both of their faces were illuminated by the fire. Their breaths moved the flame, to-and-fro, to-and-fro, like a tug-of-war. Art looked at its reflection on Paul’s eyes. “Paul, you know I love you.”

Paul nodded. “As friend?”

“As you,” he quickly said, noting the sad tone in Paul’s question. Paul and sad did not go well. Paul and angry, that’s the way it should be. Paul’s angry at Art. Art made Paul angry. There’s no such thing as ‘Art made Paul sad’. “I never thought of you as anything else. You’re not like my _other_ friends, you’re not like my brothers, you’re not like my girlfriend… You’re just… you. A category of your own. And I love you. Whatever that means.”

“Thought,” Paul repeated, carefully smiling. “What do you _think_?”

Art laughed, shaking his head gently. “Always dotting the i's, Paul.”

“Not always, sometimes I cross the i's. Answer me.”

“Pushy.”

“Indecisive. Tell me.”

Art grinned, but didn’t answer. Instead, he took Paul’s idle hand and gave it a little squeeze. Paul tilted his head and watched Art with an almost uncontained glee. Art didn’t answer. Paul didn’t tell. Not with words. They barely ever needed words.

“Come on,” Paul said, softly, like a whisper, and it almost killed the flame. It didn’t. Art noticed that, instead, the flame grew higher. He felt a gentle tug on his hand, and without any more thoughts, he followed Paul’s lead. Deeper into the cellar, where Paul had laid out what looked like a tarpaulin, and, over it, a picnic basket. He let go of Art and took out several candles, placed them around and lighted them until the room was bright and warm. Art took a seat and a look around the cellar. The ceilings were covered in cobwebs and cracks, but showered with golden lights, they looked like a dream.

On his side, Paul took out a slice of cake and lit a candle on top of it, then offered it to Art. “Make a wish,” he said.

Art lifted an eyebrow. “Will the make-a-wish thing still work if it’s not technically my birthday anymore?”

“Quit dawdling and appreciate my kindness.”

Art laughed and put his hand below Paul’s. “Let’s do it together,” he said, and Paul nodded. The two of them huddled a little closer, then closed their eyes to conjure a little wish. Art opened his eyes first, and smiled at the still-wishing Paul. His eyelashes were so short, if he cried the tears would just fall freely.

Paul opened his eyes and found himself looking straight into Art’s, then grinned. “Ready?”

Art nodded.

Paul’s inhale disturbed the stillness of the fire, and his cheeks were puffed with air. Art smiled at the view and closed his eyes when Paul let it out and blew the fire off.

Then Art leaned forward and pecked his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i see that this series is gaining a sort of (kissy) theme....


	3. December

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the edge of high school graduation, Simon & Garfunkel spent their last December together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HO HEY HO  
> HAPPY DECEMBER  
> I JUST NOTICED SEVERAL MISTAKES IN WE'RE GOING SO I'M GONNA WORK ON THAT THIS YEAREND. WHAT'S YOUR REGRET-FILLED PLAN FOR THIS MONTH?

What steps shall a teenage boy take to persuade his family to let him stay at home instead of going to see his big family in the suburb on a winter holiday? In the case of Garfunkel v. Garfunkel, apparently, Art needed only a (1) Paul Simon.

“VICTORY!” was what Paul repeated through the afternoon and on until the next morning when The Garfunkels actually packed their bags and dropped Artie to have his breakfast at the Simon’s table. And on his side, dumbfounded all the way to New Year, Art continuously mouthed, “ _How did he do that?”_

The said breakfast table was filled with potato pancakes with lots of cheese and tomatoes, sausages, buttered toasts and honey, eggs, hot tea and milk, and some warm biscuits that, after a quick look, were apparently loaded with caramels. Paul talked with his mouth full and Art just looked at Mrs Simon miserably, although the latter just shrugged and let the abomination go by. They’re each allowed one biscuit after they finished off their plate. Mrs Simon poured a fresh cup of tea for Artie and smiled warmly. “What are you boys planning to do, with the house all for yourself?”

“Well,” Paul said loudly before Art could even open his mouth. “We’re gonna heat up ice cream and see how it’s gonna taste like. Yeah. We’ve already bought several tubs.”

“And he’s gonna let me know if it’s any good, and if it is, we’re gonna try it at home,” Eddie nodded in enthusiastic agreement. “I can’t wait to see how warm coconut ice cream tastes like.”

Mrs Simon frowned and withdrew a little. “Really, Paul? Fire? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Mom, we’re not 10.”

“Yeah…” She shrugged dismissively, still frowning. Then she flitted her gaze towards Art with worried expression on her face. “Just… Just keep an eye on him and don’t burn down your house.”

Paul glared and flailed his arms. “I’m _right here._ ”

Art grinned and laughed. He squeezed Paul’s shoulder gently, pulling him back to his seat. “I’ll try, Mrs Simon,” he said, in his reassuring voice that always, _always_ got an approving nod from Mrs Simon. Paul leaned back against his chair and looked at Art with awe. Just like he always had a way with Art’s Mom, Art always had a way with _his_ Mom. And as they were making their way to the empty house three blocks away, Paul said, “Imagine what life would be like if you were a Simon and I were a Garfunkel.”

Art smiled but didn’t answer.

***

Paul burnt a hand towel, and Art broke a cup and a plate. But other than that, their lives were pretty much still intact. Four of the ice cream flavours that they heated were either too weird or too sweet, but they managed to get a decent cup of warm coconut-fudge ice cream. “We should _never_ do this _ever again,”_ Art decided, and Paul laughed and nodded at that. Art cringed at his softly steaming cup and lifted his cup to his lips, to take a careful sip. It’s not bad per se, he thought. Just… not right. It’s ice cream. It’s not supposed to be served like this. “Ice cream should just be eaten as… ice cream. Cold, and everything.”

“Uh-huh. But you _don’t_ eat ice cream on December. That’s just defiance of nature.” Paul stirred his cup again. The brown fudge stripes swirled inside his creamy white melted ice cream. He lifted his face and smiled when he heard Art’s laughter from across the table. “ _You_ eat ice cream on December,” Art said.

“That _is_ my brand.” Paul laughed back. He waved a spoon at Art. “But don’t you do that. It’s not good for your voice.”

Art lifted an eyebrow. He set down the cup on the table and cradled it between his palms. The heat transferred fast and soon his skin turned red. “Uh-huh,” he said slowly. He cleared his throat and looked into the cup. “So… About that…”

Paul put down his strange ice cream.

“I… I hope you’re fine with it. I mean… You know I really like doing it with you, but… I just want to… you know. It’s important for me, school. I hope you understand.”

“I do.” Paul nodded. “I’m just not happy about it.”

Art offered a weak laughter and said, “Hey, you’re gonna have to think of your _own_ higher education. Aren’t you gonna continue your study?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Not important. Artie,” Paul smiled heavily, and somehow Art felt that the smile just made it worse, “you don’t have to explain. I get it.”

Art jerked a little on his seat, as if Paul just startled him. He bit his lower lip nervously, stuttering slightly when he answered. “I have to. I want you to know that I’m not doing it because I don’t like doing it. I really do like doing it. Are you… Are you gonna keep doing it?”

Paul rested his chin on his palm, staring through Art. He hummed thoughtfully, then, “If I am, will you be okay with that?”

Art shrunk back into himself. “You are? Are you?”

“Maybe,” Paul said, then he drank the rest of his warmed ice cream and retched a little. Art laughed, finished his own cup, and did the same. They put both cups into the sink and decided that dirty dishes were meant to be left overnight. They had the whole house for themselves for the whole two days—there’s a lot to explore.

Art tried to stop Paul from barging into Jules’s old room and snuck into his secret drawer, finding his old journals and laughed and speculated on which name belonged to which girl. Paul wasn’t very interested in Jerry’s room, and Art already hid all of his personal stuff there to avoid the raid that he knew was coming. Paul did find a few scandalous love letters in Art’s little box, and read it out loud. Art tried to kill Paul, but failed. Then they stomped loudly out of the bedroom, played their favourite records loudly in the living room and danced to it, then sang along to it, then tried to play it on their guitars, then replayed it, then danced to it again.

Both of them dropped themselves to the ugly green sofa and caught their breaths, merrily exhausted by the fun and frivolity in the living room of their own. When Art closed his eyes, he could hear Paul’s heavy breathing that’s still adorned with laughter; and when Paul rested his, he noticed that their heads were so close, almost touching. He quickly snapped his eyes open, then jumped straight up, startling Art. Paul was quiet for several seconds, as if thinking of something, or considering a plan, then finally grinned and said, “Let’s exchange gifts.”

Art giggled. “ _You_ have a gift?”

“Yeah, like you don’t?” Paul challenged. Art simply shrugged and smiled shyly to the carpeted floor. Paul laughed, then dashed back towards the kitchen where he’d stashed his belongings while Art made his way to his bedroom. They returned with a small box in their hands and small smile on their faces.

They sat on the floor, face to face, both clearing their throats at the same time. Paul had played a Christmas record that would get him a funny look from Mrs Garfunkel had she been there to witness the whole thing, and Art loved how the tune brought both fuzzy feelings and a sense of rebellion to his evening. Then he looked at Paul who’s holding a royal blue box with a golden flower bow that he might have requested the store clerk to make, and thought how those were exactly the feelings that he felt when Paul’s around.

Art was the first to shove his box, and Paul smiled sheepishly and handed his gift to Art in return. For a while, the living room was filled only with wintry melody and the rustling sound of disturbed wrapping papers and the removal of the glinting bows. The both of them held their breaths when they opened the box, as if it’s gonna be something exceptional. A treasure, a miniature universe, anything—rather than simply a piece of trinket they could find in any common shop nearby.

“Oh,” they said, simultaneously.

Paul tore his eyes away from his gift and watched Art’s fingers that’s busy caressing the content of his own box. “That’s silk, you know? Take care of that,” he said, breaking the silence. Art grinned, plucking up the folded tie to admire it closely. Paul continued. “Bought that with the money we got from the show. Thought you might need it once you’re… I don’t know. Either famous or working in a respectable office in the future, or something.”

“Might be both,” he said, setting aside the box and the wrappings but nursing the tie on his lap. He smiled gratefully at Paul. “Thanks. I _would_ need it.”

“I know,” Paul nodded. He frowned at his gift. “Much more practical than what you’re giving me. Why a bracelet?”

Art shrugged. “Seems like something you’d wear.”

Paul looked at the glinting metal jewellery again, then slowly smiled. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll take it with me to college. And you can take that with you too.”

The words hung in the air heavily, like unwanted decoration in the wrong season. Paul looked at Art and the weight of the reality somehow just intensified with the utterance of those words. “We’re gonna leave for college soon and I want to spend as much time as I can with him before we part,” was what Paul used to beg Mrs Garfunkel to let Art stay behind, home alone in the holiday season. It’s not like when he said “pleaaaase” every time he wanted Art to skip studying this or that to play or practice with him. This time, it’s a genuine plea.

Art wasn’t there to hear any of it. Paul had decided that it’d be too hard for him to do it with Art in the room. But when it’s just the two of them in that living room, right then, they somehow returned to that day, this time together, with Art knowing what went on in the kitchen that winter afternoon, and they couldn’t take it anymore. The two of them took a deep breath, and when they exhaled, they launched themselves into each other’s embrace.

“I will miss you,” Paul said, because he knew Art would be too scared to say that first.

Art buried his nose deeper into Paul. “I will miss you, too.”

“Of course you will.” Art laughed softly. His breath felt warm on Paul’s shoulder. Paul tightened his hug. “I really wish we don’t have to go our separate ways.”

“Well,” Art cleared his throat quietly. “It’s not like we’re going to leave _tomorrow._ We still have time.”

He could feel Paul’s fists gathered the back of his shirt, and it was as if Paul was crushing his heart with those fingers. Art closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath, and his fingers did the same to Paul’s shirt when he heard the reply, “Yes, but it’s running out.”

They didn’t say anything for a long time. Paul knew that Art was crying. Art knew that Paul was crying. They didn’t say anything and let each other wipe their tears in secret.

Eventually, Paul let go of Art’s shirt and ran his fingers over the spine, caressing gently like a mother to a child. Art, on the contrary, clenched tighter, scared to let go. He squeezed more tears out of his eyes and they felt hot on his skin. He’s probably burning Paul’s, too. He asked, “Any chance I’d get you to join me?”

“Nah, Columbia’s for nerds.” Art laughed again, and this time, Paul smiled too. He let go of their embrace so he could see Art smiling back at him. Paul patted Art’s cheek lovingly, comforting. “Well,” he said reluctantly, “I suppose it’s not like I can baby you and hold your hands forever. You have to grow up sometimes.”

“Yeah, you’re not my Mom and, excuse me, you _never_ babied me. If anything, you treat me like a stray cat who kept on peeing your shoes. You literally kick me every time you see me. Also, not necessarily. We’re growing up, not apart,” Art argued, but Paul just smiled and shook his head. He’d like to believe, with Art-like youthful optimism, that in spite of their distance, they’d still be like this—close, somehow—but he was never not realistic. They’re gonna drift apart, no matter how much they’d resist. He could only treasure Art like this; capturing the little moments and the little things he’d miss—the bashful smile, the tearing eyes, the flushing cheeks.

Art grasped Paul’s fingers and squeezed them. Then, he cleared his throat, deciding to say something bold that he knew he wouldn’t have said had it been another day. But when Art opened his mouth, to either say it out loud or to stammer, a yawn escaped him instead. He took notice at the clock behind Paul’s head. It’s surprisingly late, and he realised that he’s probably a little hungry and a little woozy. Probably not out of drowsiness, but he _was_ getting exhausted after all the dancing and the feeling of things. Artie was about to tell all that when Paul suddenly moved his free hand to touch the back of his neck.

“Tired?” he asked. Art nodded. Paul’s fingers were cold behind his neck. Art trembled slightly, but he wasn’t sure whether it’s from the cold, or the overwhelming feelings he had brimming in his chest. Paul tilted his chin towards the sofa behind Art. “We can retire there, if you’re not ready for bed.”

Art frowned and, after a lengthy silence, said, “You’re being very nice.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah, does that freak you out?”

“Very. But appreciated.”

Art was about to turn his head to face the sofa, but he couldn’t look away from Paul. It’s sad. It’s sad that Paul’s probably being nice because it’s his last chance to be nice to Art. But he didn’t want to ask if it’s true. He didn’t even want to begin to speculate that it’s true. He should just go to sleep as soon as he could, so the night would stop where Paul was kind and no questions were neither asked nor answered.

Paul held Art by the wrists and helped him up, then guided him to the sofa. He let Art settle before lying himself down there as well, then he wrapped his arms around Art’s waist and resumed their hug. It occurred, perhaps to both of them, that they were never ready to let go when they hugged. They felt a lump in their throats, and Paul pressed his temple against Art’s chest, listened to the beating of his heart and tried desperately to match the rhythm with his own. Art did nothing but trying to stifle a sob. Paul patiently waited until his struggle drained the rest of his energy and, true enough, after only a short wait, Art drifted to quiet sleep.

Paul reached out to fetch the throw blanket to cover themselves. He snuggled closer to Art. His body temperature, Paul realised, was much lower than his own, and he’s shivering a little under the blanket. Paul pulled him as close as he could. Then he cried himself to sleep against Art’s chest because his tears were warm and Art was cold.

In the morning, Art woke up under the blanket, alone on the sofa. Paul had rolled over and fell on the floor without no one realising it. But even then, his hand was still holding Art’s.


	4. January

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR!
> 
> Thought about posting this a bit later, but, eh, HAPPY NEW YEAR. (Paul, please call Art)

They both came home for winter’s holiday, and they had stumbled upon each other one January afternoon. Art’s hair had grown, Paul remarked, and spent the rest of the daylight to observe how they’d react to natural light. Art tried to step on his shoe to stop him from making the obnoxious observation, but Paul remained as nimble as he was when he was in school. The college, Art said, had not changed him in that aspect. And Paul kicked Art on the shin to say that he _also_ did not change in that aspect.

Needless to say, it was a wonderful reunion.

It’s been a couple of years since they parted ways. Considering how inseparable they were before graduation, those years felt both strange and liberating, and this serendipitous event attacked them with the rush of nostalgia and impulses to pick up where they left off and to fill in on what they’d missed. So they edged to the side of the bridge and talked. They talked, and talked, and talked, and the sun somehow, out of the blue, decided to disappear, and from behind Art’s bushel of hair, arisen was the moon.

And somehow, Paul had held Art’s hand and was taking him down the bridge and on to their childhood block. Paul begged—he _begged—_ Art to visit his home, and Art agreed. Mrs Simon greeted him with a surprised laughter and a lot of kisses. Mr Simon grunted from the chair. Eddie said hello and gave him a hug. Art realised that Paul hadn’t hugged him since they found each other on the bridge earlier that day, but he didn’t say anything.

Paul opened the door and Art followed. His bedroom remained unchanged—or if there was any change, it’s more or less the same. Art tugged on a jacket that was hung on the back of the door, then closed the door with a gentle kick. He followed Paul to the corner of his bedroom, where the guitar was, and listened to his songs and his stories. Then Art let Paul hear his in return.

And somehow, Paul had held Art’s hand and was taking him down the stairs and on to his own house.

“Artie, do you have anything to do next week?” he asked, in front of the gate.

Art said no.

***

Paul drove the car. Art had heard several scary stories involving Paul’s driving, but he wasn’t too concerned. The rule with Paul was that he always reserved the most outrageous, courageous things to do as activities to do with Art, _because_ he’s always extra careful with Art. It’s strange to trust someone who’d burned down a car with a car, but that’s pretty much Paul’s magic. He got people to believe.

They stopped by the side of the park and stepped outside to a world of black and white. Art rubbed his hands to weather the cold, and quickly followed Paul. They trotted quietly towards the pond to find it, as Paul said, frozen solid. They looked at each other briefly, smiled for no reason, then put on their skates.

“You know I hate this,” Art said, laughing, as he wobbled on his first step onto the ice. Paul laughed and caught his hand, steadying him. “I know,” he said. He glided so easily, it’s like his feet were always made of blades. “That’s why we’re here.”

Art laughed again. “You’re an absolute asshole.”

No one was on the ice with them. It’s halfway towards morning and not the time of year for people to just hang around on the outside at that sort of ungodly hour. The two of them skated like that for a while, connected by their hands. Then Paul released Art and put his hands behind his back.

“So my friend Carole dropped out,” Paul said, as they circled the frozen pond. Art followed carefully from behind. Paul slowed down a little and tilted his head to check if Art’s about to fall down face-first. He wanted to see that as much as he wished for that to not happen. “I told her to finish school, but she didn’t listen. After years with you, having a blonde defying me really took me by surprise.”

Art smirked. “I see you’re still as good with that.”

“With what?”

“Using literally anything to make fun of me,” Art replied. He skated ahead, then turned around so he could skate face-to-face with Paul. “It’s strange, being without you.”

“Strange,” Paul repeated, grinning widely.

“Well, boring,” he corrected, laughing. “It’s too… normal. And nice. You know, my roommate Sandy is nice. _Too_ nice. After years with you, having a dark-haired Jewish guy being kind to me really took me by surprise.”

Paul giggled. The correct word was supposed to be ‘laughing’, but Paul laughed in giggles. Not the cute sort that girls did, just… Paul sort of giggles. He’d missed that. No one else in the world laughed like Paul. Art smiled and said it out loud, “I miss you.”

Paul lifted an eyebrow and was quiet for a while, but then he curtly nodded. “I miss you, too,” he said. He skated closer to Art, so they’re side by side, their shoulders nearly touching. The usual Simon proximity, thought Art. But this time, it’s slightly unwanted because if Paul bumped into Art, he’d fall and Paul would spend the rest of the dawn to laugh at Art. Art silently glided away, just a little. “You know, I brought you here because I wanted to tell you something." He paused. "Well, not ‘tell’. Ask.”

Art stopped watching their shoulders and met Paul’s eyes. “What is it?”

According to Art, Paul looked a little nervous. Or probably he’s just imagining things, because Paul always had that look on his face. Paul took a hold on both of Art’s hands, and they made through a circle that way; Paul skating backwards, Art following in short distance. Their fingers were gloved in thick knits but somehow, the texture of Paul's skin worked through that and it felt like they rubbed on Art's fingers directly, skin-on-skin, warming. “It’s getting cold,” Art warned. Paul laughed. It’s been cold since the minute they left the house, he said. But he fell quiet once more, and it's the kind of quiet that Paul fell into every time he's about to say something. Something serious, usually.

“Artie, I’ve known you for a very long time, and I tried really, really hard to be your friend since day one because from the moment I met you, I knew that that’s what I had to be.” There it was. A very serious introduction. Art felt a gentle squeeze around his fingers. Paul’s definitely nervous, because he thought Art was nervous and he’s trying to comfort Art with the squeeze. That’s his only tell-tale; otherwise, no one would know whether Paul Simon's nervous or if that's just the way his face functioned. “But then I _became_ your friend. And I know we’ve drifted apart, but now, after the last several days, it feels like we’re friends again, and I…”

Paul cleared his throat.

“I want to be more than that.”

Art lifted his eyebrows, then frowned, then frowned deeper. “Are you…” he stammered. “Are you proposing me?”

Paul grinned. Art wasn’t sure whether to feel reassured by the grin, because Paul’s grin could either mean that he’s gonna kill anyone who hurt Art or that he’s gonna hurt Art. Good-naturedly. Because all crimes committed by Paul against Art were done in good nature. Somehow. Paul lifted their joined hands and brought them against his chest. The movement brought both of them closer together and Art nearly wobbled, but Paul's grip was firm. Their vision was clouded by the white puff of air escaping their lips, and for a moment, Paul looked like an apparition. “Arthur Ira Garfunkel,” he began.

Art hated Paul for the pause.

“Will you be my singing partner again?”

Paul giggled and swayed backwards, guiding both their legs to create tiny infinities on the surface of the frozen water. It took Art several seconds until he processed the question, then began to smile. He laughed loudly. He could hear it through the gusts of winter winds. Paul joined the laughter. Paul’s giggling laughter. Art pulled their hands towards him. “Of course, you idiot! You actually asked me to break out of my own house at 3 in the morning and took me to a frozen lake and skated in this temperature _just to_ _ask THAT?_ ”

Paul both laughed and sighed in relief, nodding quickly. “It’s _pond._ And, good God, that was nerve-breaking. It’s not ‘just’! It’s actually important! I want to impress you! Serious proposals need to be impressive, you know?”

Art grinned, and he noticed that his teeth were chattering but he didn’t really care. “Yeah, whatever. And just so you know, if you were to propose a girl with this whole setting, it’s definitely gonna work. She might die of cold, but she’d say yes. So, there you go. You have your pre-made proposal idea. You just need to change the words a little.”

Paul waved his hand dismissively. Art quickly grabbed it back once he’s done. “Eh, probably wouldn’t be as good. I don’t think as much about other people, so might not be able to come up with better wordings.”

“Oh?” Art noticed that Paul was pulling him towards the edge of the pond. He smiled. “Does that mean you mostly think about me?”

“Of course I do. When I was alone in my bedroom, playing guitar, I’d think of you and go, ‘if Art were here, I could use him as a foot stool’.”

“I hate you.”

But Art didn’t, and Paul knew that. Just as Art knew that they were leaving the pond because Paul knew that it was getting too cold for Art. Just as Art knew that Paul knew that he was never gonna say no. Not to that, not to anything Paul would ever ask of him.

They took off their skates and shuffled through the cold with mild worry regarding the car and the snow. But if they couldn’t go home, spending several hours inside the car wouldn’t be too bad. They’re gonna be together, unlike the past couple of years, unlike the several years to come where they couldn’t be within walking distance from one another. _Maybe I should expand my range of walking distance,_ thought Art, _that way, Paul would_ still _be within_ my _walking distance, even though he’s far._

“Does that mean you forgive me?”

Art stopped.

Paul looked down. “About the… the recording. When I didn’t do it with you. Are you still mad at me about that?”

Art thought for an answer. He carefully approached Paul and the side of the car, then said, “I’m still mad about that. But you are forgiven.”

“Really?” Paul insisted. Typical Paul. He never felt he deserved forgiveness, even when he’d begged for it and worked hard to earn it.

Art nodded sternly. “Well, you proposed me like that. Of course I have to forgive you.”

Paul rolled his eyes. “ _Fine,_ I’ll marry you. But you owe me.”

Art laughed, and Paul followed the suit. He always did that, Paul. He always made sure that Art was smiling before he could smile himself. More than any words he could ever say, everything Paul did for Art, with Art, around Art, was more touching.

They both stashed their skates in the trunk, then got into the car and drove away. Art looked at Paul as they strolled carefully down the street, and he knew that Paul would throw him a careful sideway glance the moment he looked away. The way he knew that there were words they left unsaid. The way he knew that they’d left them unsaid for a long time now.

And somehow, Paul had held his hand and was stopping the car in the middle of the street. They looked at each other and they knew they’d never say it. Yet still, they leaned into each other.

It was twelve days into the new year. It was the warmest day of the year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now the theme is getting hand-holding-y.....


	5. February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't Valentine's day really about giving (your brother's friend's brother a heart attack)?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul-Artie-lite chapter.
> 
> I KNOW IT'S SUCH A CLICHE TO DO A VALENTINE'S CHAPTER FOR FEBRUARY BUT  
> I DON'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO

Emerging from the corner of the street was a little chubby boy with a slight spring in his steps. Stopping before they bumped into each other, Eddie giggled and jumped backwards, allowing a little more space between them. “Hey, Jerry,” he greeted. “Where’re you off to?”

“Not sure.” The reply was quick and quivering. Jerry held the books in front of his chest tighter, as if Eddie might take them and use them to pound his head. Eddie frowned and said, “This is Eddie.”

“Oh!” He relaxed. “I thought you’re Paul. I, uh, I’m going home. I just got back from the bookstore.” Jerry gingerly showed some of his books to Eddie. Eddie frowned at the titles, but beamed when he found a comic book in the pile. He spent the trek back home reading the pages while Jerry helped him manoeuvre the streets.

The Garfunkel house was closer from the route they took, but Jerry let Eddie stood in front of the gate and read, while he began to leaf through the pages of one of his thicker books. Soft noises of his mother’s singing to a radio tune could be heard from where they’re standing. Jerry hoped it’d be fried chicken tonight.

Eddie snapped the comic book shut and handed it to Jerry, thanking him with a smile. Jerry nodded, and waited politely for Eddie to leave, but it didn’t seem to be happening. Jerry frowned and tilted his head. “Are you… Do you want to come in?”

Eddie shrugged. “If that’s okay… Or, I’d probably just hang around the park, that’s okay too…”

“Uh,” Jerry looked unsure. “You’re not going back home?”

“Nooooooooo. Artie’s there, and I don’t wanna walk in on them again.” Jerry lifted an eyebrow, questioning. Eddie took a step back and folded his arms in front of his chest, his eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead. Then, slowly, he flashed a victorious smile. “You don’t know, do you? They’re seeing each other, you know?”

Jerry nodded. “Of course I do. They see each other _every day._ It’s like Artie belongs to _your_ house, not mine.”

Eddie shook his head and laughed. He lowered his voice. “They’re, you know. Doing adult stuff.”

“Doing taxes.”

“The other stuff.”

“Driving?”

“Are you all like this? Are all Garfunkels like this?” Eddie groaned and giggled softly, but he stepped closer and whispered conspiratorially, “I mean, dating! They’re doing all those kissy stuff in Paul’s bedroom.”

Jerry blinked. He looked down at his shoes, and thought of ants. Then he thought of worms. The words ‘dating’ and ‘brother’ were never fun to hear in sequence. Jerry thought of the possibility of erasing his ears, then his memory, then his brain, then his head, then himself. He tried to find a good position to distribute the weight of his books. His arms were getting sore. When he’s out of things to do, he decided that he could no longer delay asking, “What?”

“Oh, yeah. I saw them smooching in TV room once when Mum’s not home. Paul gave me _lots_ of food to thank me for not saying anything to anyone for, like, 3 weeks. Good time.” Eddie stopped and observed Jerry’s gestures for a while. The boy was clearly in discomfort, but it’s mostly shock. He remembered when he first saw the event. It’s creepy, because it’s his brother. But it’s largely funny—also because it’s his brother. So good little Eddie moved back and said, “Hey, you wanna see?”

“Um…” Jerry shifted from one leg to another, looking down. “Wouldn’t that be gross?”

“Oh, totally gross.” Eddie jumped excitedly. “But aren’t you curious? Come on! I’ve been hearing Paul practising cheesy songs all week, he must’ve been planning on doing something cheesy.” Eddie stopped and looked down, grinning sheepishly. “Okay, it’s me who’s curious. I mean, it’s Valentine’s so I’m pretty sure they’re doing something in their bedroom and I kinda wanna see. You know, for research. But I can’t face it alone because it’s gross, so it’ll be better if I have you. To share the feeling with. Anyway, aren’t _you_ a little curious?”

“Kinda…” Jerry frowned and twitched and looked down, and Eddie waited for him to relent in silence. That’s very Paul and Artie, he thought. And if all Garfunkels were alike, then they would eventually agree to the Simons. And, just as expected, after a few thoughtful seconds, Jerry began to smile and nodded. “Okay. But give me a moment to put my books first.”

Eddie giggled and agreed to wait, jumping throughout the period to fight the cold weather. It’s a chilly day with only mild wind and cloudy sky; an okay day, in general, but might need a lot of moving about to make better. A good day to be indoor, Eddie thought. Which was perhaps the reason why Valentine fell on this date. When Jerry returned, they sped up their departure and ran towards the Simon’s house as fast as they could.

Eddie quietly shushed Jerry as they entered the house. The mother spotted them from the TV room, but Eddie put his finger to his lips, also shushing her, and she simply shrugged. It’s not every day that the other Simon hung out with the other Garfunkel. She turned to her TV and thought of whether she’s gonna have to facilitate an additional bushy-headed child in her house, had Eddie befriended Jerry.

The two children climbed up to the second floor, where Paul’s bedroom stood, slightly further from Eddie’s. The door was sealed shut, but Eddie told Jerry that there’s a chipped corner from which they could see into Paul’s bedroom. “You just have to lie down,” he said. Then he did it, to show Jerry how it’s done. After a couple of seconds, he gasped and pointed at the hole, whispering, “They’re snogging. See? What did I tell you! Get in here! Come on!”

“Gross!” Jerry whispered back, but quickly dropped down to take a look.

It’s difficult to see through such a narrow crack, but it’s unmistakable. That’s his brother’s golden head, probably being crushed between Paul’s hands and the room’s about to get all bloody and red. But, no, Paul’s not pulling his brother’s hair to pluck them off the scalp. They’re actually kissing. With lips and all. Jerry moved back and looked up at Eddie. “Eww.”

“I know!” He giggled and skipped towards his own bedroom, opened the door to let Jerry in, who was eager to get away from Paul’s bedroom. Eddie closed the door and chuckled happily as Jerry dropped himself on his bed, stunned. “You’re lucky you have me when you found out. When _I_ did, I had to deal with it all by myself.”

Jerry cowered on the bed. “But they can’t do that.”

Eddie pouted. “Says who?”

“The Law?”

Eddie sat with Jerry, in silence. Jerry looked like he just got slapped by a giant dog. It’s probably not a good decision to show that to him; Eddie only thought it was gonna be fun. For what it’s worth, the reaction _was_ funny. Although now that he revisited the idea, he might’ve scarred Jerry for life.

So Eddie gave Jerry several copies of _his_ comic books and they read quietly for a while. They could hear a thud, sometimes, from the other room. Then they’d lift their heads and look at each other with wide eyes, then they’d return to their reading because they’re too scared to say anything to comment on that. That would be accepting that _that_ was happening.

Eventually, Eddie cleared his throat. “You’re not gonna tell on them, are you?” he asked, lifting his gaze up carefully, meeting Jerry’s reluctant eyes. “Because if you are, well…” Eddie crumpled the pages of his comic books when he clenched his fists. He frowned and thought of Paul—or rather, what Paul would say. “I would… I would behead you with my chair. And punch you. A lot. With my Dad. And-and dogs.”

Eddie with threats looked and sounded too much like Paul that Jerry quickly shook his head. “I swear I won’t. I wasn’t even thinking it,” he said, quickly. Eddie nodded in agreement. They were still for several more seconds, then Eddie’s forehead smoothened and he returned to his comic book once more.

“You know, we _have_ to do it, too, someday.”

Eddie quickly shot Jerry a twitchy look. “You mean, we… You… Me… That…?”

“No!” Jerry sat up and dropped his book. “I mean, with a girl. Someday. It looks gross, but that’s what everyone does.”

Eddie nodded slowly, staring at the discarded book thoughtfully. “I just wish it stops at hugging,” he said. “Hugging’s okay.”

“Kisses are supposed to be just from aunts,” Jerry said.

“Or not even.”

“Agreed.”

Now with a much better mood, Jerry scooted off the bed and dusted himself. “I should go home. Mum’s gonna start looking for me. But this had been… gross. Thank you. It’s fun.” Eddie grinned proudly.

Upon opening Eddie’s bedroom door, the youngest of the Garfunkel found the scandalised brother also on his way out of Paul’s bedroom. Jerry, apparently much quicker at deflecting suspicions and answering unnerving questions than Art, casually said, “Mum’s looking for you. You’re supposed to pick up something at the dry-cleaner? She sent me to remind you after I got back from the bookshop. Stumbled upon Eddie. You’re apparently not done, so I’ve been reading books in his bedroom. Was about to knock, actually, because we should go home.” Eddie was impressed, especially because he _knew_ just how bad Art was at coming up with sensible excuses. Jerry would do well in life.

Art suspected nothing, and simply said that he agreed that it’s time to go home. Eddie watched from upstairs as Paul accompanied both of them to the front door, and he smiled widely and waved when Jerry briefly glanced back to give him a secret wink.

Art carried a dry-cleaned suit in one arm, and his bag in the other. He’s a little tilting because of the uneven distribution of weight, and he slipped and fell often enough even without the extra challenge. Jerry, never the fast walker, waited for him patiently with each step, but still walked slightly ahead of Art because it’s a little difficult to look at him after the event that afternoon.

“Before I forgot,” Art suddenly said, then he pushed a hand into his bag, rummaging through it for a while, before producing a little bar of chocolate and handing it to Jerry. “It’s for you. Got one too many. Sorry, Paul took most of them earlier. But I told him not to take that one. That one’s yours. You like that one, right?”

“Thanks.” Jerry clutched it, then looked at Art thoughtfully. Art gave him a smile in return, then patted his shoulder lightly before resuming their journey home. Jerry followed, very quietly. Until they reached the gate to their house and Jerry thought he couldn’t not say it, so he decided to say it. “Artie?”

Art stopped and turned.

Jerry cleared his throat. “No matter what, I love you.”

Art smiled and held out his arm, reaching out to get Jerry into his embrace. “A bit much for just a chocolate, but I’ll take it,” he said, and he didn’t let go until they found the front door. And Jerry thought how much it’s true; that he loved his brother, no matter what.


	6. March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artie the Sleeping Beauty  
> or  
> Wednesday Morning, 3 A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or How I Only Return to Update My Monthly Fic
> 
> this is? weird? but? maybe not?  
> I feel it's a little off. Maybe because it's underdeveloped, but, hey, it's a monthly fic.  
> But maybe you won't feel that way. Maybe you'll like it. Who knows?  
> Here's a carrot.

Art opened his eyes and realised that Paul was very, _very_ close to him. Unnecessarily close. _Too_ close. After good fifteen seconds, he finally realised that Paul was kissing him.

“Paul?”

It could be the movements of the lips, it could be the audible confusion, but Paul snapped open his eyes, frowned at Art, then retreated and never returned. Art blinked and remained stationary as Paul left the bed for the bathroom, and he felt his cheek twitching when the flushing sound roared from behind the door. Paul flushed, at least, he thought. Then he realised that what he was supposed to be thinking was how Paul just kissed him in his sleep.

The muffled sound of heavy drizzling from the shower room filled the stillness that surrounded Art in his lonesome. He tried to come up with a proper piece of thought, but he felt so far away from his conscience. Art was just an empty shell of body that processed what his sensors managed to pick up—the sounds, the temperature and the texture, the smell, the whiteness of the sheet—but couldn’t register any of it to a higher function. He couldn’t process abstract fragments of the moment—the emptiness, the loneliness, the loss. It’s probably what it felt like to be a robot.

Somehow, Paul had taken a shower, put on clothes and socks and shoes, packed up his guitar, and left, when Art finally registered that there’s no more sound to be picked up. Art pushed himself to sit up, then he glanced around the bedroom.

Paul was no more.

***

What would he have done had he known sooner? Broken it off to Paul gently? Avoided him at any cost? At first, he thought it didn’t matter because it’s done and past now, but he realised that the answer to that would be a clue to the next question: What _did_ he feel about all that?

_Fear._

Art tossed and turned in his sleep, and he dreaded the upcoming recording session. It's not gonna be until the next Tuesday, and he had only a handful of days to process this. Paul kissed him, what's that about? Through the rest of that Wednesday, he thought of that question and all possible answers he could come up with. Did Paul like him? Was Paul drunk? Was he high? Was he insane? Was he delusional? Was he horny and didn't care? Was he joking? Were they playing Truth or Dare that he somehow managed to forget? They're gonna get killed on the street at night, weren't they? _Did Paul like him?_

On Thursday, he thought about the past and whether Paul had ever had any inclination on liking blokes. No, not really. Paul _dated_ girls. Wait _—_ Paul was currently _dating_ one. Was that just a ruse? Could it be? He thought on whether he'd ever done anything particularly misleading that might have pushed Paul to make that sort of decision, then over-analysed every little detail from his past throughout the afternoon and evening. No, he never said anything weird that might have sparked that sort of affection. Sure, he'd expressed some sort of affection somehow, in his _—their—_ own way, sometimes including but not limited to angry pushing, angry shouting, cry-laughing, intense smiling, and speedy hugging.

 _Are you two dating?_ On Friday, Art recalled a nervous, whispered question by a neighbouring tenant, once upon a time when Paul was only beginning to visit Art in his dorm. Art laughed it off because it wasn't the first time anyone teased him about Paul. It wasn't. _It wasn't._ Could it be that those questions came from real observations? Had people been knowing that Paul was into this and Art was the only person in the world who's not aware of it? _DID PAUL LIKE HIM?_

On the weekend, he eventually decided to see Paul, so Art took his scooter and went to visit him at home. It wasn't a good idea, because Paul wasn’t there. He was apparently away for days since they parted—off to a little trip with his… _friend—_ and now he’s dropping her off to the airport. Or on his way back from it. Whichever way he’s going, he’s going home and Art’s stuck with Paul’s TV room’s orange sofa.

When Paul returned, cold and shaking, to find Art there, neither of them said words, but they began to head out. Art closed the door behind him and gestured for Paul to follow him to his scooter. It marvelled him a little, as they put on their helmets in preparation, how needless words can be with the two of them. Art’s noticed how little their relationship required: not that much time, not that many words, not that close a distance. A minimalistic approach. But they knew that sometimes thoughts and feelings and ideas couldn’t be contained in a glint in their eyes or the tiny quirk on their lips, and that’s when they’d need to find a world for two, to synchronise their languages, to take time to spend alone together. That sometimes, Art thought, and Paul agreed, would be today.

They drove quietly through the streets of their childhood, and wound up in a familiar place. Art parked his scooter and led the way with a little tilt of a head. Paul, curious, followed him with a frown. An unusual dynamic, he thought, as it’s usually the other way around. The rabbit _never_ followed Alice.

Art ducked carefully through an apparently cut-up wire gate near a thick bushel and gripped Paul’s wrist to get him to follow. Art held up the loose wire for Paul and closed them back as Paul stepped through what he then realised was the far side of his old baseball field. He let out a laughter and shook his head. “So this was how you snuck in to the field _every time,_ even though the gate was guarded. I always wondered.” Art turned around at the first sound of Paul’s voice he’d heard in days, and Paul’s smile faded under Art’s gaze. Quickly, Paul cleared his throat and looked down, almost bashfully. “Listen, Artie, I know. That must’ve taken you by surprise. And I know I shouldn’t have done that. Even if I know you’re into that sort of thing, I shouldn’t have done it in your sleep, unless we’re already… you know. Anyway, I know I should’ve asked. I’m sorry. That was pretty… what’s the word for asshole-y?”

“Actually, that’s a pretty suitable word.” Paul grinned at the reply and relaxed. Then it’s Art’s turn to cough and look all guilty. He stepped backward a little. “So, I thought this would be a good place to talk about all of it—I mean _all_ of it—because I’m pretty sure no one’s gonna overhear us in here… although now that I’d seen it, it kinda looks creepy, so I’m sorry about the venue…” Paul laughed. But the sound faded way too soon and its disappearance made Art feel so sad, he couldn’t keep himself from tearing up a little. He tried to come up with words simply to avoid crying, and his sentences came fumbling: “Anyway, you… I never knew. I didn’t know. I guess those two are the same in essence… Anyway, I’m sorry if I’ve ever… Aren’t you… _Don’t you have a girlfriend?_ ”

Art didn’t know why, out of all things he’d thought of asking and telling Paul, he blurted _that_ one. Paul frowned and grinned and let out a confused-sounding giggle, took a step back and everything else there was to do to keep the answer within himself for a while. But still Paul gave up the answer: “It’s rediscovering your first love, Artie. And thinking that maybe it’s more than just one kind of second chance.”

Art lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, so, yeah, you loved me.”

Paul turned impossibly crimson. “Shit, I didn’t mean… Fuck. That was _not_... Okay, you know what? Yeah, I did. I do.” He observed how both he and Art took yet another step backward, then regretted their mutual bodily impulse to put distance between them. But Paul felt like it’s needed, distance—he had to hide the redness of his face and his eyes that were tearing up. But still, he thought of how, if he could find that morning’s courage and fight that impulse, they’d be so much closer now. They’d be so much closer and he could look into Art’s eyes and figure out what his stupid blazing head was thinking. Paul stopped. At least he had to start there.

“So, uh, how do we proceed? I mean, I assume you're making us talk because we have that recording together and we have to face each other either way... Listen, I get it if you don't wanna go on with the album with me, but don't you think it's such a shame? Besides, we have contracts and everything. And it’s completely fine if we both just forget that last week happened. Like, does it even matter if I love you? Sure, that’s pretty gross that I kissed you in your sleep and all and for _that_ I apologise, but it’s not important, that other thing. You always know I do, in a way. And now you know there’s _another_ way. But that’s not a big deal. You like knowing stuff.”

Art laughed. “Shut up, stop talking. Listen, I don’t know, Paul. About what to do, I mean. I’m fucking scared, and not sure what I’m scared of.”

“Classic Artie. Okay, let’s figure this out. You’re scared of… of people suddenly popping out of those bushes over there and strangle you with chains. You’re scared of chains. _And_ of this place at night, apparently. You’re _also_ scared of geese, sudden movements, thunders, coffees that are _too_ dark—like, what the fuck, Artie?—people with small teeth, _winks,_ colourful foods…”

“Okay, that’s enough, Paul.”

“Butterflies."

“They’re bloodsuckers!”

“My Mum. _Your_ Mum. My Dad. Your Dad. Pictures of goat skeletons. Blue crayons. Middle-aged ladies with _very_ red lipsticks…” Paul grinned and stopped when Art stomped over to punch him into silence. He gripped Art’s wrists and they both went still. Paul tilted his head, offering Art a sad smile. “And you’re scared of me. Always.”

Art pursed his lips and diverted his gaze away from Paul. He looked around to observe the abandoned field, dry and empty like it’s always been, all those juvenile afternoons that he waited for Paul to finish his baseball practices. They’d find some place to stop by before home every time—a soda purchase, a sneak into the magazine’s rack, a shared ice cream, a bench to chat on. It was friendship. They didn’t know how to have friends.

“Paul, kiss me.”

Art felt heat creeping up his face, but held his gaze firmly at Paul. He’s pretty sure that, if the wind stopped blowing, he’d be able to hear Paul’s heartbeat. He’d be able to hear Paul’s breathing. The loud and fast breathing. He thought of all the times he’d heard that rhythm—whenever Paul stopped to catch his breath after running towards him, after they both hit a particularly long note together, every time Paul finished a confusingly long and excitement-inducing-albeit-unnecessary tale… That’s the rhythm of Paul—the drumming sound that roused anticipation and exhilaration. That rhythm signalled that Art should be on the ready because something amazing was about to happen, and every time it rang, he’d always be there, at the edge of his seat, waiting as the drumming approached. Artie never did the running.

As these thoughts were rushing through his head, as if it’s the hardest thing on earth to do, Paul was moving heavily towards Art. His whole body was shaking—or maybe it was Art’s, he couldn’t tell. Paul looked up and Art looked scared; it’s always like that. Art was always scared, and Paul would always give him new things to be scared of until he no longer feared what he feared before. And Art always wanted without knowing, and Paul always offered new things to desire. _Do you want it, Artie? Do you want it, Artie? Do you want it, Artie?_ Like a relentless salesman, Paul kept on haunting him with an object to crave until he, too, eventually, wanted it…

… or realised that he’d always wanted it.

Art took a step forward. Then another, faster this time. Paul froze in his track, and this time, it was him who looked scared. This time, it’s Art who did the running, and it’s Paul who had to listen. One more step. Art pulled Paul by the arm, but they both stopped before they got too close. Paul frowned in that strangely angry way that got everyone faint-hearted to think that they might have done something wrong—the frown that he flashed that morning. And Art replied the frowned, in his studious and slightly confused way. Had he ever looked at Paul this closely before? Numerous times, but only when he’s making noises. _Watch my tongue, then do what it does while I watch yours._ Oh, that's where things got strange. They were always a fairy eyelash away from kissing.

In mutual realisation, they both broke into a grin. Then, relaxed, Paul reached to curl his fingers on Art’s shirt. He felt the body enveloped in it moved to meet him closer, and the inside of his head collapsed and exploded like a supernova. _This is happening. This is happening. This_ has _happened before, but this_ _is happening._

“So you’re not mad and _will_ come to the recording session next Tuesday, right?”

Art giggled against Paul’s lips. They tried to maintain the contact, but failed miserably in a matter of seconds. And as fast as it happened, the kiss left them. They both wobbled away from each other, laughing and slumping to the ground. Art grinned widely as he steadied himself against the wire gate, terribly shaking and trying to stop his giggling. Art wanted to say something mocking because it felt like a good time to. Something like, _Do you_ always _talk when you kiss? Should I pity everyone who’d ever gone out with you?_ But Paul’s eyes were already glinting with answers to those mockeries, so Art swallowed back the questions. He looked away, still smiling, but this time it’s out of fondness for their familiar wordless language. He didn’t need words when he’s with Paul. He really could be a fish and Paul would still understand. “Yeah.” He nodded. Art found Paul’s smiling face nearby, and his face softened. “I’ll come.”

Paul’s fingers found and entwined with his that night, but it wasn’t to make sure that he's warm. In a strange moment that they both were sure would keep on occurring from then on, they thought of how those fingers had been wrapped around each other for a very long time now, and they began to lose the ability to see any possible future without their interlaced fingers in it. In the freshness of it all that night, it seemed like that future would never exist anyway. Still, they wrapped each other tighter and blamed it on the edge of winter. In the comfort of their shared silence, Art looked up at the sky dreamily, and Paul looked at what the moonlight shone at, wonderingly.

On Sunday morning, Art, again, woke up to realise that Paul was kissing him. And after several minutes, Paul, again, was gone. He returned the next day with his guitar and a new song that recounted the Wednesday morning that Art slept through. Paul kissed him before he fell asleep that Monday night. On the promised Tuesday, they went to croon that nearly-unsung Wednesday into immortality, then they etched the time mark on the immutable version of their vocal union. Never to be forgotten.

Art stayed awake through the rest of that Tuesday as he waited for the clock to take him to a new Wednesday morning. He’d wake Paul up with a kiss, just like the Wednesday before, but he wouldn’t leave.

He would never, ever leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in serious trouble now. I have no idea what happens in April.


End file.
